


A Study in Crimson

by alltoseek



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Gen, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 01:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/pseuds/alltoseek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new century and a new look, but some things never change. Among them are London, cabbies, Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Crimson

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [thegameison_sh](thegameison_sh.livejournal.com) [prompt](http://thegameison-sh.livejournal.com/22804.html) "New".

Stamford led me down to the basement of old Barts. "What on earth does he do down here?" I muttered. 

"'She'," smiled Stamford, as he opened the door.

"I play the violin, frequently," said the young woman as she studied the hologram in front of her. "It helps me to think. I don't sleep much. I'm moody, and can be silent for days or talkative for hours. Would any of this be a problem?"

"I – what?" I said, articulately. "Be a problem for what?"

She glanced at me with some impatience. "For a home-share, of course. Although a doctor, you don't work here at old Barts, and Stamford didn't bring you down here for the delightful ambiance. Last I saw him, I mentioned needing a co-signatory for a lease, and now here you are, recently discharged from MedC-Afghan, likely looking for a place. Certainly looking for a housemate, as you're here to meet me."

"Well, yes, as it happens a home-share would be convenient right now. But how did you know I'm a doctor? And just back from Afghanistan?"

She had returned to the holograms, switching among several sets. Her thick dreadlocks hung all about her head, obscuring her face. "Your trousers have a pocket for a medpad, though empty now - therefore a doctor, unemployed. You have an unfashionable crew-cut and a military bearing. The faint tan-line around your eye shows where the scope was in place whilst you worked in the field. Finally, I can smell the skin treatment used to treat the dryness caused by the harsh conditions in Afghanistan. Soldiers returning from the humid Congo do not require it."

I was astounded. She had deciphered all of that in an instant. "You're amazing!" I exclaimed. This brought me a shy glance. "And no," I added, finally answering her question. "None of that would be a problem."

"Excellent!" She flashed a brilliant smile at me and then returned to her holograms. She had taken several from different scenes and strung them together into a vid. "Well, Stamford, Doctor, what do you think?" she asked, playing it. 

Stamford nodded. "Seamless." 

"Remarkable," I breathed. 

She grinned smugly. Bringing up a vmail app, she spoke into it: "Gregson, the East London murders _are_ linked," and sent it off.

I looked my incredulity at Mike, who chuckled. "Yes, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"John Watson," I offered, extending my hand to her.

She took it, saying, "Dr Watson, I have in mind a flat in a townhouse. Shall we have a look?"

"Yes, certainly."

And with a sway of her dreads we were off to Baker Street.

While leap-frogging traffic in the hover-cab, my prospective flat-mate received a holo-page. As we viewed the small indistinct image of a room with a body sprawled on the floor, a man's voice spoke: "A case for you, Sherlock, has loads of odd clues. Three Lauriston Gardens, Brixton. Lestrade." She gave the address to the cabbie. "If you don't mind?" she asked. "You were wondering what it is I do." 

Yes I was, but how – ? "No, I don't mind."

"Excellent. This'll be much easier than trying to explain."

*****

_How did I get here?_ a bewildered voice in the back of my head wondered.

This morning started normally enough. Got a coffee, ran into an old friend.

Now I was gripping my (illegally-possessed) field laser-scalpel, sneaking up behind a hover-cab operator.

He was holding a knife to the throat of my new acquaintance.

Crimson liquid trickled brightly against her dark skin.

"Sure I will kill you with the knife," the cabbie snarled. "You've got half a chance with the pill. Take it!" He thrust the capsule against her tightly-closed lips. She stared back at him, cool and steady.

I crept closer.

A floorboard squeaked. The man whipped around, droplets of blood arcing through the room.

My scalpel flared into life, ready to cauter-amputate the man's wrist; but Sherlock was on him first, her arms coming up under his shoulders to lock behind his neck, her foot kicking his legs out beneath him.

The insane light in the man's eyes dimmed and his body crumpled, pills scattering.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, eyes bright.

"You're welcome," I said, catching my breath. "So, then, this a typical day for you? Solving cases, nearly getting killed, catching murderers?"

She grinned. "Well, it's not every day I find a new flat-mate."


End file.
